Sacred Sins (23 page)

“I was proud of you that day. I still am.”

She smiled and picked up her napkin. “You've got ketchup on your chin, Senator,” she murmured, and wiped it off.

T
HREE
and a half miles away Ben and Ed had had more than one drink. The club was decorated with wine bottles, had its fair share of regulars and a blind piano player who sang low-key rock. His tip jar was only half full, but the evening was young. Their table was roughly the size of a place mat squeezed in among a line of others. Ed worked his way through a pasta salad. Ben settled on the beer nuts.

“You eat enough of those,” Ben commented with a nod at Ed's plate. “You turn into a yuppie.”

“Can't be a yuppie if you don't drink white wine.”

“Sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Taking him at his word, Ben plucked up a rotini noodle.

“What was the word when you called in?”

Ben picked up his glass and watched a woman in a short leather skirt slide past their table. “Bigsby went by the drugstore where he bought the money order. Nothing. Who's going to remember a guy buying a money order three months ago? Aren't you going to put any salt on that?”

“Are you kidding?” Ed signaled for another round. Neither of them were drunk yet, but not for lack of trying.

“You going over to Kinikee's Saturday to watch the game?”

“I've got to look at apartments. I've got to be out by the first of December.”

“You should forget an apartment,” Ben said as he switched to his fresh drink. “Rent money's money down the tube. You ought to be thinking about buying your own place, investing your money.”

“Buying?” Ed picked up a spoon and stirred his drink. “You mean a house?”

“Sure. You've got to be crazy to toss money out the window every month on rent.”

“Buy? You thinking of buying a house?”

“On my salary?” Ben laughed and tipped the chair back the full inch he had.

“Last I looked, I was bringing home the same as you.”

“I tell you what you need to do, partner. You need to get married.” Ed said nothing, but drained half his drink. “I'm serious. You find a woman, make sure she has a good job—I mean, like a career, so she won't be thinking about dumping it after. It would help if you found one you didn't mind looking at for long periods of time. Then you combine your salaries, you buy a house, and you stop throwing away rent money.”

“They're turning my apartment building into condos, so I have to get married?”

“That's the system. Let's ask an unbiased party.” Ben leaned over to the woman beside him. “Excuse me, but do you believe with today's social and economic climate that two can live as cheaply as one? In fact, considering the buying power of a two-income family, that two can almost always live more cheaply than one?”

The woman set down her spritzer and gave Ben a considering look. “Is this a pickup?”

“No, this is a random poll. They're turning my partner's apartment into a condo.”

“The dirty bastards did the same thing to me. Now it takes me twenty minutes on the Metro to get to work.”

“You have a job?”

“Sure. I manage Women's Better Dresses at Woodies.”

“Manage?”

“That's right.”

“Here you go, Ed.” Ben leaned toward him. “Your future bride.”

“Have another drink, Ben.”

“You're blowing a perfect opportunity. Why don't we switch places so you can…” He trailed off as he spotted the man approaching their table. Instinctively he straightened in his chair. “Evening, Monsignor.”

Ed turned and saw Logan just behind him, wearing a gray sweater and slacks. “Nice to see you again, Monsignor. Want to squeeze in?”

“Yes, if I'm not interrupting.” Logan managed to draw a chair up to the corner of the table. “I called the station and they told me you'd be here. I hope you don't mind.”

Ben ran a finger up and down the side of his glass. “What can we do for you, Monsignor?”

“You can call me Tim.” Logan signaled to the waitress. “I think that would make us all more comfortable. Bring me a St. Pauli Girl, and bring another round for my associates.” Logan glanced over as the piano player went into one of Billy Joel's ballads. “I don't have to ask if you two have had a hard day. I've been in contact with Dr. Court, and I had a brief discussion with your captain a couple of hours ago. You're trying to pin down a Francis Moore.”

“Trying's the word.” Ed pushed aside his empty plate so the waitress would clear it when she served the drinks.

“I knew a Frank Moore. Used to teach in seminary down here. Old school. Unshakable faith. The kind of priest I imagine you're more accustomed to, Ben.”

“Where is he?”

“Oh, in God's light, I'm sure.” He picked up a handful of nuts. “He died a couple of years ago. Bless you, child,” Logan said when his beer was in front of him. “Now old Frank wasn't a raving fanatic, he simply wasn't flexible. Today we have a lot of young priests who question and search, who debate such horny—you should forgive the pun—issues as celibacy and a woman's right to give the sacraments. It was easier for Frank Moore, who saw things in black and white. A man of the cloth doesn't lust for wine, women, or silk underwear. Cheers.” He lifted his glass and drained what was left of the beer. “I'm telling you this because I thought I might tug on a few connections, talk to some people who would remember Frank and some of the students under him. I did some counseling at the seminary myself, but that was nearly ten years ago.”

“We'll take what we can get.”

“Good. Now that that's settled, I think I'll have another beer.” He caught the waitress's eye, then turned back to smile at Ben. “How many years of Catholic school?”

Ben dug for his cigarettes. “Twelve.”

“The whole route. I'm sure the good sisters gave you an admirable foundation.”

“And a few good shots across the knuckles.”

“Yes, bless them. They aren't all Ingrid Bergmans.”

“No.”

“I don't have much in common with Pat O'Brien myself.” Logan hefted his fresh beer. “Of course, we're both Irish. Lecheim.”

“Father Logan—Tim,” Ed quickly corrected. “Can I ask you a religious question?”

“If you must.”

“If this guy, any guy, came to you in the confessional
and told you he'd done someone, murdered someone, would you turn him in?”

“That's a question I can answer equally as a psychiatrist and as a priest. There aren't many.” He studied his beer a moment. There were times when Logan's superiors considered him too flexible, but his faith in God and in his fellow man was unwavering. “If someone who had committed a crime came to me in the confessional, or sought my professional help, I would do my best to persuade him to turn himself in.”

“But you wouldn't push the button?” Ben persisted.

“If someone came to me as a doctor, or seeking absolution, they'd be looking for help. I'd see that they got it. Psychiatry and religion don't always see eye to eye. In this case they do.”

There was nothing Ed liked better than a problem with more than one solution. “If they don't see eye to eye, how can you do both?”

“By struggling to understand the soul and the mind—in many ways, seeing them as one and the same. You know, as a priest I could argue the subject of creation for hours, I could give you viable reasons why Genesis stands solid as a rock. As a scientist I could do precisely the same thing with evolution and explain why Genesis is a beautiful fairy tale. As a man I could sit here and say, what the hell difference does it make, we're here.”

“Which do you believe?” Ben asked him. He preferred one solution, one answer. The right answer.

“That depends, in a matter of speaking, on what suit I'm wearing.” He took a long drink and realized if he had a third beer, he'd be pleasantly buzzed. While enjoying the second, he began to look forward to the third. “Unlike what old Francis Moore used to teach, there are no blacks and whites, Ben, not in Catholicism, not in psychiatry, and certainly not in life. Did God create us
out of his goodness and generosity, and perhaps a sense of the ridiculous? Or did we invent God because we have a desperate, innate need to believe in something larger, more powerful, than ourselves? I argue with myself often.” He signaled for another round.

“None of the priests I knew ever questioned the order of things.” Ben swallowed the rest of his vodka. “It was right or it was wrong. Usually it was wrong and you had to pay for it.”

“Sin in its infinite variety. The Ten Commandments were very clear. Thou shalt not kill. Yet we've been warriors since before we could speak. The Church doesn't condemn the soldier who defends his country.”

Ben thought of Josh. Josh had condemned himself. “To kill one-to-one is a sin. To drop a bomb, with an American flag on it, on a village, is patriotic.”

“We are ridiculous creatures, aren't we?” Logan said comfortably. “Let me use a more simplistic example of interpretation. I had a young student a couple of years ago, a bright young woman who, I'm embarrassed to say, knew her Bible better than I could ever hope to. She came to me one day on the question of masturbation.” He turned a little in his chair and jogged the waitress's elbow. “Excuse me, dear.” He turned back. “She had a quote, I'm sure I won't get it quite right, but it had to do with it being better that a man cast his seed into the belly of a whore than to spill it onto the ground. A pretty strong stand, one might say, against, ah, self-servicing.”

“Mary Magdalene was a whore,” Ed mumbled as the booze began to catch up with him.

“So she was.” Logan beamed at him. “In any case, my student's point was that the female has no seed to cast anywhere or to spill on the ground. Therefore, it must only be a sin to masturbate if you're a male.”

Ben remembered a couple of sweaty, terrifying
sessions during puberty. “I had to say the whole damn rosary,” he muttered.

“I had to say it twice,” Logan put in, and for the first time saw Ben relax with a grin.

“What did you tell her?” Ed wanted to know.

“I told her the Bible often speaks in generalities, that she should search her conscience. Then I looked up the quote myself.” He took a comfortable drink. “Damned if I didn't think she had a point.”

T
HE GREENBRIAR ART
Gallery was a small, fussy pair of rooms near the Potomac that stayed in business because people always buy the ridiculous if the price tag is high enough.

It was run by a crafty little man who rented the ramshackle building for a song and promoted his eccentric reputation by painting the outside puce. He favored long, unstructured jackets in rainbow hues, with half boots to match, and he smoked pastel cigarettes. He had an odd, moon-shaped face and pale eyes that tended to flutter when he spoke of the freedom and expression of art. He tucked his profits tidily away in municipal bonds.

Magda P. Carlyse was an artist who became trendy when a former first lady had purchased one of her sculptures as a wedding present for the daughter of a friend. A few art critics had suggested that the first lady must not be too fond of the newlyweds, but Magda's career had been launched.

Her showing at the Greenbriar Gallery was a huge success. People crammed into the room dressed in furs, denim, spandex, and silks. Cappuccino was served in
thimble-sized cups, along with mushroom quiches the size of quarters. A seven-foot black man wrapped in a purple cloak stood mesmerized by a sculpture of sheet metal and feathers.

Tess took a long look at it herself. It made her think of the hood of a truck that had passed through a migration of unfortunate geese.

“A fascinating combination of mediums, isn't it?”

Tess rubbed a finger over her bottom lip before she glanced up at her date. “Oh, absolutely.”

“Powerfully symbolic.”

“Frightening,” she agreed, and lifted her cup to disguise a giggle. She'd heard of Greenbriar, of course, but had never found the time or the energy to explore this trendy little gallery. Tonight she was grateful for the distraction this gathering provided. “You know, Dean, I'm really delighted you thought of this. I'm afraid I've been neglecting my interest in popular, ah, art.”